


In the empty space

by chasindsackmead



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 5 Times, M/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 20:41:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6344383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasindsackmead/pseuds/chasindsackmead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Garrett Hawke set foot in a Chantry. </p><p>How can we know You?<br/>In the turning of the seasons, in life and death,<br/>In the empty space where our hearts<br/>Hunger for a forgotten face?</p><p>(The Chant of Light, Canticle of Trials 1:4)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the empty space

**1\. Highever, 9:06 Dragon**

Leandra had given birth in a farmer's spare bedroom in a village so small it wasn't marked on any of Malcolm's maps; they had packed up and left two days later, at her own insistence. "We need to make contact," she'd said, swaddling the baby in the remains of an old petticoat. "It doesn't matter how much money we have, we need -- "

The baby had broken out into a cry, and she had lifted him, held him close against her breast, kissed the top of his head. Malcolm had reached out, tentative, almost unable to believe that it was real, that he had a _wife_ , had a _child_.

"It's too soon," he'd said, stroking the baby's hair. "You're not strong enough."

The baby had quieted, and she had looked up and given him a steely glare that reminded him of her father. "I know how strong I am, Malcolm Hawke. We need to go, and the sooner the better."

And she was right, so they had left, leaving behind a little extra silver to pay for the ruined bedsheets. ("Not gold," Leandra had said, "gold will draw attention.") By the time they got to Highever, they were exhausted, and they fell into bed at the first inn they could find and slept for every hour the baby would allow them. They were there for three days before Leandra had the energy to get out of bed.

On the fourth day, Malcolm made contact with the Mages' Collective. A gold sovereign and a satchel of lyrium potions was enough to buy the information he needed: people to trust, and not to trust; templars who could be bribed, routes it was wiser to avoid, nobles who cared more about having magic on their side than the Chantry.

He came back to the inn to find Leandra rocking the baby in her arms and staring pensively out the open window. The Chantry bells were ringing the call for evening prayers.

"I don't remember what day it was when he was born," she said. "Do you?"

Malcolm walked up behind her and put his arms around her, supporting hers so that they held their son together. "Today is the fifth," he said, "and we've been here... this is the fourth day. How long were we travelling?"

"I don't remember," she said. "That's the problem. How can we celebrate his birthday when we don't know when he was born?" She sighed and leaned back a little, letting him take some of her weight. He felt his heart lurch in his chest. The running, the danger -- it had distracted him for a while from the enormity of what he'd done, the scale of what Leandra had lost.

"It doesn't matter, I suppose," she said with a yawn. "Silly even to think of it, with everything else on our minds."

"No," he said urgently, "no, we -- he should have a birthday. He should be like every other child. We should..."

He trailed off, unsure of what to say. What did a birthday mean, out here in the world? He had been so young when the Circle had taken him, he barely remembered his parents' faces, much less what his birthdays had been like, or if they'd even celebrated them.

She turned her head, just enough to look at him, her eyes soft with fatigue and affection. "Oh, Malcolm," she said, and she kissed him, a quick, reassuring peck on the lips. "He'll have everything we can give him. All our care, all our love."

As if love could ward away templars, or keep demons at bay. "If -- if that were enough -- "

She kissed him again, more firmly this time. "Hush. We're here now. You're free. We're a family. That's what matters."

He slid his arms down around her waist and squeezed. "I took you away from wealth and comfort and safety," he said. "That will always be true, no matter what else happens."

"I came by choice," said Leandra. "And I don't regret any of it." She turned to look out the window, and he followed her gaze. They had a view of the Chantry's belltower from their room.

"We'll take him there tomorrow," he said, thinking about what the Mages' Collective contact had told him. _Sister Mathilde wouldn't know you for a mage if you cast a fireball on the Chantry floor,_ he'd said, _and Mother Luce can be discreet, if she thinks you're a good person. Don't make trouble and she won't tell the templars._ "We'll have one of the sisters say a blessing over him -- that can be his birthday."

"Mmm, I like that," said Leandra. "A name-day -- do you know, I think the dwarves have name-days instead of birthdays? It's more interesting." She laughed. "Maker's breath, Malcolm, we haven't given him a name!"

He laughed too, and the sense of relief was like cool water after a day out in the sun. "A Fereldan name would be best, if we're going to settle here."

"What sort of names do Fereldans have? We're not going to call him Dane, are we?"

Malcolm winced. "That's setting rather too high a standard," he said. "I thought... maybe Garrett? My -- my first real instructor was called Garrett." A sombre, fatherly man, kind and thoughtful, who had been able to see when Malcolm needed help and when he needed to be left alone; who had known how to nourish his charges without making them feel stifled. He had been the only good thing about Kinloch Hold, and Malcolm had missed him intensely when he'd been transferred to the Gallows.

"Garrett," said Leandra, as if testing the sound. She lifted the baby, who had been dozing in her arms for a while, and kissed the top of his head. "Are you a Garrett, little one?" The baby burbled a little, its head burrowing into the folds of her gown, and she smiled. "I think he is."

The next day, they dressed in their most ordinary clothes and walked to the Chantry after breakfast, Leandra carrying Garrett in a sling. Malcolm dropped a few coppers in the collection box and looked around for a woman fitting the description of Mother Luce. The only grey-haired woman in priestly robes was kneeling before a statue of Andraste, eyes closed and hands clasped, and they waited in respectful silence until she finished and rose to her feet.

"Maker turn his gaze on you. Do you need something, friends?"

Leandra stepped forward, lifting Garrett out of the sling. "Revered Mother, we were hoping you could say -- some kind of blessing?" Her eyes dropped, and Malcolm put a hand on her shoulder. It was strange, to see her so unconfident. But Highever wasn't Kirkwall; the Chantry here was smaller and more humble, and the priests' robes were less elaborate. The Chantry in Kirkwall had felt designed to intimidate, and the few times he had been inside it, he had been only too glad to leave. But perhaps for an Amell, born to high rank, that kind of splendour was normal.

Mother Luce's face softened, and she bent over Garrett, who was blinking up at her uncertainly. "Of course, child," she said. "There is a ceremony, but -- I think, from the looks of you, it might be best to opt for something more simple? A new child is a great deal of work, and you probably have other things to do."

"Yes," said Malcolm, "I think that would be best."

Mother Luce reached for Garrett, and though Leandra seemed reluctant as she handed him over, Garrett didn't stir or fuss, only staring and rubbing his face against the swaddling cloth. Mother Luce held him carefully in the crook of her left arm, and with her right forefinger she drew the outline of a flame on his forehead, chanting,

" _Who knows me as You do?_  
_You have been there since before my first breath._  
_You have seen me when no other would recognize my face._  
_You composed the cadence of my heart_."

She rested her palm on Garrett's brow and intoned, "Blessed Andraste, watch over and protect this child. May he please the Maker in all his deeds and be gathered to His bosom at the end of a long and happy life. In the name of the Maker, so may it be."

"So may it be," Malcolm and Leandra echoed her words, and Mother Luce handed the baby back.

As Leandra tucked Garrett back in the sling, thanking Mother Luce with soft, diplomatic words, Malcolm added his own silent prayer: _O Maker, may he not be a mage, may he not be burdened as I have been burdened. And if he is --_ Even in his own mind, he faltered. It felt blasphemous to ask. But the Maker knew his secret wishes, before he had formed them into words. _If he is a mage, may he be free all his days. May he never be made Tranquil. May he never succumb to temptation._

Leandra touched his arm, and he gave Mother Luce a nod as they turned to go. It was bright outside, and he blinked in the sunlight and glanced down at little Garrett. "Our life is a miracle," he said, and Leandra slid her arm around his waist and smiled.

 

**2\. Lothering, 9:27 Dragon**

The Chanter smiled as he handed over the sack of elfroot. "Though the lands suffer a thousand wrongs, the Maker yet notices the smallest of deeds," she said, counting out the reward of fifty silvers, and he nodded, not wanting to embarrass her with words. When they had first arrived in Lothering, Carver had made a game of talking to the Chanters, trying to make them crack and say something that wasn't in the Chant, or just enjoying the way they would struggle to respond truthfully with the phrases at their disposal. Sometimes Garrett had joined in, when their father was out of earshot, or when he felt like it would be worth a telling-off.

Garrett weighed the coins in his hand. It had taken a week of camping under the stars and fighting off bears and bandits to gather enough wild elfroot to fill the sack, and he was going to have to replace his boots. Ten silver for the month's rent, twelve for a week's food for the four of them, four for new boots (cheap ones)... He could take a few days off and rest, and maybe get some little trinket to cheer Bethany up. Carver needed a new whetstone. Mother had been looking peaky lately -- most likely just sadness, but a good beef joint wouldn't hurt. Might put some colour back in her cheeks.

There would be enough left over, just about. He hadn't been sure.

He exhaled softly, pocketing all but one of the coins, and pushed open the Chantry's doors.

The light was dim and the air smelled of beeswax and dust. Garrett felt the usual dread settle on his shoulders. He glanced around. No templars. No Revered Mother. No worshippers, either: he was alone, except for a red-haired sister kneeling before a statue of Andraste, her head bowed.

He walked up to her and waited for her to notice him. When he had waited too long to expect she would see him by herself, he cleared his throat and said "Excuse me, Sister?"

She looked up, startled. "Oh, Monsieur, I apologise!" Her eyes were a startling shade of blue, and they glistened with unshed tears. "I did not mean -- I -- " She stood, closing her eyes for longer than a blink. When she opened them again, she looked perfectly composed, and her voice was steady. "I was deep in my devotions. Please forgive me. How can I help you?"

Garrett hesitated. "You can drop the act, if you like," he said. "I promise I won't tell the Revered Mother."

Anger passed in a flash across her face, and was gone. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said firmly. "Was there something you needed?"

 _Someone to cry with,_ he thought, and the grief welled up in his chest so that it was an effort to speak. "My father died... it's been a couple of months now," he said. "I know Mother wanted his name on the Chantry's memorial wall. Money's been a problem, so we haven't been able to do it before now. I can pay -- "

She shook her head, cutting him off. "It shouldn't cost anything," she said fiercely.

He blinked. "But it does. Doesn't it? If it had been free, we would have done it straight away."

"To keep alive the memories of someone you loved? It should be free. Everyone should be able to -- " She cut herself off, staring at the candles in front of the statue. "I'm sorry," she said. "I am new here. I forget myself. Perhaps you should come back when the Revered Mother is here."

"I don't know when I'll next have a chance," Garrett said. "Look, just -- take it as a donation, will you? I'd like... I think my mother would like to see his name on the wall, the next time she comes. I think it would -- anyway, can you do it? Or see that someone does it?"

She nodded, serious and guarded. There was something wild about her. Garrett wondered how long she would last in those robes. "I must write down his name, I -- oh, it is in the transept. Follow me?"

He followed her into a part of the building he'd never even seen, much less entered. (On his occasional visits, he always stayed near the door. Just in case.) There were benches and cupboards and a lectern on which there rested a vast book -- he'd seen it before in the nave and always assumed it was a copy of the Chant, but the sister opened it up and picked up a pen and ink and wrote something down in it. "What was his name, your father?" she said, looking up at him, her voice quiet and sympathetic.

His throat closed and he couldn't speak. She looked away, and he blinked and gritted his teeth and breathed carefully through his nose. "Malcolm," he said at last, "Malcolm Hawke," and he spelled it out for her. "No title, no lineage, just -- just the name."

"Perhaps the name of you and your mother as well? Your siblings, if you have any. 'Beloved husband and father.' He was beloved, I can see that."

Garrett opened his mouth to say "yes," but something stopped him. His name, and Bethany's name, carved on a wall for all to see? A Chantry wall, at that, next to their father's name, and their mother's -- his phylactery had been destroyed before Garrett was born, and yet he'd never lost his wariness. Those who harboured apostates could be punished almost as harshly as apostates themselves.

His shoulders tightened. "No," he said, "just his name, please."

She nodded. "It will be done," she said, adding as he reached for his coinpurse, "Please, do not trouble me with a donation, I cannot accept it."

"You're sure the Revered Mother won't be angry at you? I wouldn't want to get you in trouble."

She looked doubtful, but only for a moment. "It will be fine. Please -- the next time you are here, show the memorial wall to your mother. Your father's name will be there."

He smiled and nodded, even though if he had his way, there'd never be a next time.

Once he was out the door, he could feel the tension lifting. The Chanter was still there by her board, her head bowed now as she chanted: "Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones..."

 _And the ones who haven't turned it against anyone will be locked away or hunted,_ Garrett thought, his stomach twisting.

Enough. It was done, and he never had to step inside those doors again if he didn't want to. Mother could find the name for herself.

 

**3\. Kirkwall, 9:37 Dragon**

His heart started to pound as soon as the towers of the Chantry came into view. What was Anders planning? What was he going to do?

_Why won't you tell me?_

Once they were inside, Anders excused himself. Garrett watched him go -- into a side-chamber, and not out again. There had to be corridors linking them all together, or maybe he had found a trapdoor leading to a cellar. Maybe there was something underneath the Chantry's building that he needed.

_Maybe I should trust him._

That thought made him scowl. _Maybe he should trust me!_

He kept walking. There was a pair of noblewomen halfway down the nave who grew hushed as he passed, whispering at each other. He caught the words "Champion" and "wife" and another wave of anger rolled over him. Three years he'd been living with Anders -- three years of Anders sharing his bed, his hearth, his dinner table -- and as far as the nobles were concerned, Anders might as well not exist. Hightown was very good at ignoring anything it didn't want to see. The alienage, the Gallows, the Qunari, the refugees -- whatever cut into their clothing budget or spoiled their view of the mountains.

He stared up at the grand gilded statue of Andraste. From the lower levels of the Chantry, it was almost impossible to see her face. The statue itself was as tall as the gate guardians at the Gallows -- for all he knew, it might have been a gate guardian once, re-forged and shaped into something new, the way the Gallows had been changed from one kind of prison into another. The way enslavement _by_ mages had been changed into enslavement _of_ mages. As if that was supposed to be better.

_You wouldn't have wanted this, would you? You wanted people to be free. You went to war with the Imperium for freedom. Gilded statues and grand towers perching on top of the poor and the wretched -- that sounds more like the enemy you fought than anything you would have created._

His stomach was churning. For weeks, there had been a feeling in the city like the heavy pressure before a storm. Sooner or later, something would have to give. Lightning would strike and the heavens would open.

He climbed up the stairs to the dais where Elthina stood. Mild face. Grey hair. Not a cruel person, he thought. Not greedy. Not eager for her own power.

He was so wrapped in thoughts of what she was not that he barely heard her words of greeting.

A blessing. She wanted to give him a blessing.

"The Maker abandoned us long ago," he blurted out, "if he ever existed. What good would your blessing do me?"

Her face creased into an expression of concern. "It might help settle that anger," she said gently. "It is hard to accept that there is no divine hand we can look to for guidance. But mankind has turned on the Maker twice. Now we are the ones who must prove our love for Him."

 _Like a battered dog licking the boot that kicked him,_ Garrett thought.

The Grand Cleric folded her arms. "Is there some other reason you're here?"

He could have asked her about mages then, but he already knew what she would say. She would claim to be neutral, urge him to consider the merits of both sides, as if he'd never thought about the matter before. As if he hadn't lived it.

The worst part was that she believed what she said. It might have been easier to hate her if she had been insincere.

No, Elthina was not cruel. Not on purpose, anyway.

Anders appeared from... somewhere... nodded politely to Elthina, and they took their leave. Down the stairs from the dais, down the long nave past the gossiping nobles, through the massive double doors, out into the clean air of Hightown.

As they went down the broad steps towards the market, he glanced at Anders' face. His expression was calm, resolved, a little wistful, and Garrett felt a sudden twist of panic, as if Anders was slipping away from him.

"Will you tell me what you did?" he said in a quiet voice.

"I did what I had to do," said Anders, and the look he gave Garrett was so pained and sad that Garrett wanted to crush Anders to his chest right there in the courtyard.

He settled for grabbing Anders' hand and squeezing it tight. "I believe in you," he said. "I believe in you more than I ever believed in the Maker."

Anders shook his head. "You can't put that weight on my shoulders," he said softly. "I'm not... I am doing the best I can, love. That's all I can do. Please just believe that much."

Garrett glanced back at the Chantry's towers. Whatever Anders was doing, it was more than the _nothing_ Elthina was doing. More than the nothing the Maker would do, if everyone persisted in waiting for him to act.

It wasn't much to go on, but it would have to do.

 

**4\. Amaranthine, 9:41 Dragon**

He had been up on the battlements when the rain began, and the nearest building was the Chantry of Our Lady Redeemer. On balance, he found he wasn't quite principled enough to prefer being wet over taking shelter from a corrupt institution, so he huddled under the eaves and peered at the Chanters' Board while he waited for the squall to pass. There were a number of small errands and missions posted there: gathering wild herbs for healing, killing a dangerous bear that was terrorizing farmers, tracking down a crew of bandits. More intriguing were the notices of missions completed: almost all of them bore a seal with an eye and a sword and a terse note: "Completed by the Inquisition in the interest of keeping order. Reward not claimed."

They really were doing good, then. Varric's letter had sounded excited, but Varric would be the first to admit that he often exaggerated when the truth was too mundane for his taste. All of that "Herald of Andraste" stuff -- it sounded garbled, with perhaps a speck of reality at the core of a pearl of wishful thinking. Bridges mended, roads guarded, fires put out and hungry people fed -- that was more like it.

The door to the Chantry opened. He ignored it, until someone behind him cleared their throat meaningfully. He turned around and raised one eyebrow at the sister standing just beyond the threshold. "Can I help you? It's not a sin to stand on a doorstep, is it?"

The sister's mouth compressed into a line. "I am expecting someone. A visitor, to pass a message to. I was given instructions." She peered at him. "Would you lower your hood?"

Hawke pulled back the hood of his cloak with one hand, gripping his staff with the other -- she didn't look like a templar, but there might be one standing guard behind her. She peered some more, then said, "I was told to say first that the brother who was saved has gone to the far west. I don't know what that means, do you?"

Hawke nodded. "You've spoken to... a man in blue, I take it?" It felt faintly ridiculous to use coded phrases like that, but Stroud had been very clear that the Wardens could not be trusted any more, and that the less information that could get back to them, the better.

She frowned. "Come in out of the rain, serah," she said. "We can talk in private."

Still holding his staff in readiness, Hawke passed through the door, glancing around as he entered. Three templars in full plate, swords at the ready, guarding different sections of the building. Hawke registered their positions and looked away, keeping close behind the sister. Most of the templars had broken with the Chantry long since, and were off killing mages or fighting for Corypheus. To see templars still here... he wasn't sure whether that was worrying or reassuring.

The sister led him into a small office off the main open area, closing the door behind him. "Your... man in blue told me very little," she said. "A few signs by which I could recognise you. I don't know who you are, and it's most likely best that I never find out. He's a devout man, you know. I wouldn't be doing this otherwise."

"I know."

"These are troubled times, and what is happening with the Wardens..." She looked away, shaking her head, and then looked back at him. "You sound Fereldan. Were you here for the Blight?"

"Some of it. We -- well, I got away. Fled the country."

"The Blight itself never reached this far north, but after it was over, there were attacks. The city..." She shivered, as if a spirit had walked through the space where she stood. "The Hero of Ferelden was here. She saved the city. It would surely have been overrun if not for her and the Wardens of the Vigil. Your friend... He knew we would help him, because we remember. He wasn't there, but his order was, and they saved us all."

Garrett nodded, suddenly realising that Anders had been one of those Wardens -- must have been, though he hardly ever spoke of his time in Vigil's Keep. Had he stood in this Chantry, made offerings here? Had he prayed before the statues?

"What I am doing is for the good of the Wardens," he said.

"I don't doubt it." She took a cylinder out of a pocket of her robes and handed it to him. The seal was still unbroken. "He didn't ask me not to read it, but I haven't. I know the Wardens guard their secrets, and I know why. I think so, anyway. The burden they carry..."

Garrett thought of Anders, waking in the night from a dream of swarming masses of darkspawn and a sweetly whispering voice. It had been happening so often lately that the dark circles under Anders' eyes were all but permanent. His fists tightened, and he nodded sharply. "I know that burden well. I... thank you, sister."

He broke the cylinder's seal and read the message. It was a single word: _Crestwood_.

He held the slip of parchment in the flame of the nearest candle and let it burn to ash before bowing to the sister, fist clenched over his heart in the Fereldan fashion, and turning to leave.

It had stopped raining, and the air smelled fresh and green. Hawke closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Anders was far to the north, most likely halfway to Brynnlaw by now. It would be warm there, and dry for weeks at a time.

Despite himself, Garrett couldn't help but pray. _Maker, if you're listening, keep him safe, keep him whole. If you ever loved me, let me go back to him. I am half a man without him._

He sighed and opened his eyes. No time to waste. He set off down the stairs towards the exit from the city.

 

**5\. Perendale, 9:45 Dragon**

Although they'd been travelling roughly in the direction of Kirkwall, they'd been putting off making a decision since the day they were finally able to leave Weisshaupt. The Divine had issued a general amnesty, negotiated after months of talks and diplomacy between the leaders of all the southern nations: anyone involved in the conflict between mages and templars was not to be prosecuted or pursued for acts committed during that conflict. There was a list of exceptions -- people considered too dangerous to be left at large -- and Anders' name was not on that list.

Garrett had written to Varric as soon as he'd heard, and that was why they'd stayed in Perendale for two weeks. They'd been keeping a low profile, which was easier than Garrett had expected; people's knowledge of what had happened in Kirkwall was patchy, and a lot of people thought he had died in the Gallows, or they'd both been at the Conclave and died in the explosion, or they'd gone to Tevinter to be magisters. Some people had picked up the wrong idea about the Arishok story and come away with the impression that he was a Qunari, which tickled Garrett no end. In any case, he found that using his first name and calling Anders by endearments was as much of a disguise as either of them needed. It felt good and natural to call Anders "love," "darling," "sweetheart" all the time. It also made Anders blush, which was another good reason to do it.

Their timing was a little unfortunate. The Divine was touring Nevarra, and she was due to make a stop at Perendale. The city was crowded in anticipation, the countryside for miles around pouring forth all the people who could be spared from the farms. Pickpockets and con artists had descended as well, and he and Anders had spent a few evenings and afternoons rounding up bandits to hand over to the overstretched city guard. Nobody had asked them to do that, and they'd agreed with each other that they wouldn't, that it was better not to draw attention to themselves; but the first time they saw a terrified peasant couple being menaced by a group of thugs with crossbows, they slipped into their old battle routines without a word being said.

It had been exhilarating, fighting side by side again. The peasants had been grateful, stammering out thanks that Garrett brushed aside and offering a reward that Anders flatly refused. When they were safely on their way, and the thugs were disarmed, knocked out, and delivered to the guardhouse, Anders slipped his hand into Garrett's.

"There'll be more of that to be done before the Divine arrives," he said.

"Oh, probably," said Garrett. "Might as well be us doing it, don't you think?"

Anders shrugged, smiling that lopsided smile that Garrett loved so much. "It would pass the time."

So they hadn't been idle, but they had been waiting, and the gang-busting and street justice had only been partly effective as a distraction. Garrett needed to know if they could go back to Kirkwall, if there would be a place for them there -- for both of them, because he wouldn't go without Anders. It was up to Varric, and not just because he was the Viscount. If Varric wasn't ready -- and with a heavy heart, Garrett had to admit to himself that he might never be ready -- they would stay away. Garrett would visit, of course, but more than that would be too cruel.

Wording the letter had been a painful task, and after it was sent he spent every quiet moment rewriting it in his head.

He woke up one morning later than usual to find himself alone in bed, the shutters open and sunlight streaming into the room. _What if I'd gone into more detail about Weisshaupt,_ he thought immediately, _would that have softened him up? Seeing how Anders helped me with that mess?_

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He could hear noise from the street outside, a constant dull roar of people -- cheering? chanting? But the Divine wasn't due to arrive for another two days.

He pulled a shirt and a pair of pants on and leaned out the window. There was a mass of people swarming down the street, all heading towards the Chantry, in a mostly orderly fashion. There were guards posted along the sides, watching the crowd and stepping in whenever anyone shoved too hard and a fight looked like breaking out. He watched, waiting for the crowd to diminish, and when a good five minutes had passed with no let-up in sight, he closed the window and put on his boots and his coat.

There was a note pinned to the door, in Anders' messy handwriting. _Divine arrived early. Gone to Chantry. Meet me there? Love, A._

He paused, his hand reaching for his staff. He'd been planning on looking for Anders, assuming that he'd had trouble sleeping and had gone to help defend the crowds from opportunistic thieves. The thought of Anders seeking out the Chantry itself, when the Divine was scheduled to speak there, was a little alarming. Divine Victoria was a friend to the mages, more so than any of her predecessors, and she had been part of the Inquisition when they had brought the rebels into the fold. But she would be surrounded by Chantry officials, guards, probably former templars -- if any of them recognised Anders, would they care about the amnesty? Would they strike first, and claim afterwards that they thought it didn't apply to him?

He grabbed his staff and left, taking the inn's stairs three at a time.

The main street was out of the question -- fighting that sea of people would be madness -- so he ducked into a side-street and wove a route through Perendale's maze of back-alleys. When he got near the square in front of the Chantry, he scanned the crowd for some glimpse of Anders. There was nothing: no feathered shoulders, no distinctive staff, no flash of red-gold hair. Ignoring the flood of bitterness in his mouth, he gently pushed his way around to where a guard he recognised was standing near one of the Chantry's side doors. "Sergeant Delia!" he said with his most charming smile. "Any chance of my getting in?"

She shifted on her feet. He and Anders had helped her with some bandits three days before; she could have handled it, but not without a serious injury. "This door's supposed to be reserved for Chantry sisters and their guards," she said.

"I could be a guard," said Garrett. "Maybe the Divine hired me this morning."

"Did she?" said Sergeant Delia, raising one eyebrow.

"No," said Garrett. "But she could have, and you could say that to anyone who asked. If anyone asked."

She snorted and stood aside. "Don't think it'll matter, anyway. Crowd's wall-to-wall in there. No one'll spot you. Good luck."

"Thank you." He slipped inside, and quickly realised how right she was: the interior of the Chantry was almost as dense with people as the main street had been, all of them hushed and still, listening to the Chant. His heart quailed at the prospect of searching the whole crowd for Anders. He could be anywhere among the gathered people, and Garrett wouldn't know, or be able to get to him if he did.

He made his way around the edge of the crowd, almost hugging the walls, and to his immense relief he found Anders near the back, leaning against a pillar. "There you are," he murmured, touching Anders' arm.

Anders turned to smile at him, his eyes bright. "Oh, you came! I'm glad."

A lump rose in Garrett's throat. Didn't he realise by now, after everything they had been through, that Garrett would always come for him? That he would wade through lava, fight dragons, storm cities to be by his side?

He opened his mouth to speak, but Anders shook his head and put a finger to his lips. "I want to listen," he whispered, and turned to face the dais where the Divine was standing.

Garrett followed his gaze. The Divine stood before a semi-circle of clerics, resplendent in her red and white robe, her arms spread wide as if she wanted to embrace the entire congregation. As she began to sing in a high, clear voice, he felt a shock of recognition. Her hair was hidden under the headdress, and it had been nearly twenty years, but he remembered her. In the newsletters and criers' bulletins, she had been named as "Leliana, Sister Nightingale, former Left Hand of Divine Justinia V". None of them had mentioned the three years she had spent as a lay sister in Lothering, burning bright and quiet, the drab robes and grey stone not enough to quench her bold spirit.

He turned to mention this to Anders, but the sight of him trapped the words in his throat. There were tears in Anders' eyes, and a faint glow of blue showing through a few cracks on his cheeks and neck, as if Justice were coming to the fore. Yet his expression was serene and joyful.

The Divine's voice lifted, and Garrett listened intently, for the first time actually attending to the words of the Chant:

" _All sins are forgiven! All crimes pardoned!_  
_Let no soul harbour guilt!_  
_Let no soul hunger for justice!_  
_By the Maker's will I decree_  
_Harmony in all things._  
_Let Balance be restored_  
_And the world given eternal life._ "

The other clerics joined in a chorus of the last line repeated, over and over, rising and falling and rising higher again, a cascade of voices in a harmony so sweet it cracked Garrett's composure at last and he wept like a child, letting the tears fall where they may.

The singing faded and the Grand Cleric spoke the words of dismissal, and as the crowd began to disperse in a chorus of murmurs, Garrett bowed his head and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He felt somehow soothed and scraped raw at the same time.

A hand touched his shoulder. "Exaltations," Anders said. "It's my favourite. They only sing it on special occasions. Are you all right, love?"

Garrett choked down a breath and shook his head, not so much a "no" as a "not yet". He rested his hand on the place where Anders' neck met his shoulder and gazed at him, the softness of his face, the peace there. "No glow," he said.

Anders chuckled. "Was I...? That was a good glow, I think."

"'Let no soul hunger for justice'? I didn't hear the beginning. What does that mean?"

"It's a vision of a perfect world. When the Maker returns..." He glanced at the dais. The Divine had gone, and so had the clerics. Only the pillar at their backs was keeping them from being swept away by the crowd of people leaving. "Divine Victoria doesn't believe in waiting for the Maker to return, because she believes He never left us. 'Harmony in all things'. It's not about some far-away future for her. It's something to work for, here and now."

Garrett nodded, thoughtful. It had always been anger that drew Justice out. It had never occurred to him that hope could do the same. "I can see why Justice would like that."

"I think you like it too." Anders touched Garrett's cheek, one finger following the tracks left by his tears.

Garrett opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. There were no words for this, no way to explain it, hope and confusion and an ache of something he had always missed without quite knowing why. He leaned forward instead, touching his forehead to Anders', stroking the side of his neck, breathing him in. He could have said _I'm here because you're here,_ \-- it was true, but that wasn't it. He could have said _I think I know where your faith came from_ , but that wasn't it either.

Most of all, he could have said _you're beautiful when you're happy._

They stood like that, silent and still, until the storm inside him subsided and he felt able to step back, wipe his eyes, and take Anders' hand. "Let's go," he said.

Hand in hand, they walked out into the sunlight.


End file.
